First Christmas Alone
by TheBlackButler
Summary: John dreams of Sherlock the Christmas after his suicide. Inspired by a prompt from ambiguouslygayhusbands and i-o-u-a-fall on tumblr.


It was cold. The streets and sidewalks of London were dusted in a thin blanket of snow with the underlying layer of ice. The roads were crowded with cabs and cars full of families returning from their Christmas parties and festivities. Men and women alike walked the pavement, their cheeks colored red from the cold that nipped at their skin. It was Christmas Eve, and though it was loud, all of their conversations and holiday cheer were drowned out. It was cold, but then again, John supposed it always had been.

December 25th seemed to have snuck up on John this year, but he thought little of it. He had purchased his respective gifts for Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and even for Lestrade that he'd put in the mail several days ago. He walked along the full pathway and moved with the flow of the people. John was sure they were all joking and laughing, yet he couldn't make out any distinct words; all he could really hear was the _schuff-schuff_ of feet along the icy walkway. Had to be careful not to lose your footing out here, else you'd end up face down in the street. Snowflakes embedded themselves into his hair and he huffed quietly, releasing a smooth vapor of cold air from out of his nose.

He stepped aside onto the front step of 221B, fumbling with the key in his numbed hands and sliding it into the lock. Quietly, the John slipped inside and trudged up the steps. He was in no holiday mood, and seeing the flat always put him in less of a good mood than he already was. He'd gone to the absolute minimum with decorations this year with only some lights around the window and a small, plastic tree sitting on the still-cluttered table. Christmas cards from his old acquaintances adorned the fireplace, adding just a little bit of cheer to his day.

John moved to the kitchen quietly, having slipped off his coat and let it fall into his chair. He opened up the fridge, ignoring the most likely spoiled experiments that still lay on the racks, and grabbed the bottle of scotch. He poured himself a small glass and slipped some aspirin into his mouth to sooth a headache that had come out of the blue but came on strong (just recently the insomnia had disappeared, but it had been replaced by hideous, unbearable migraines). The bitter taste of alcohol on his tongue disguised the flavor of drying glue that his pills had.

With a reluctant huff, he shuffled back to his chair and sat. The streetlamps flickered solemnly beyond the curtains, he noticed, and soon the clock would toll eleven. Christmas day would be nothing special this year. John sighed, moving to take another drink of scotch from his shaking glass. That damn nervous tremor had returned, and his therapist said it was just high stress levels, but what kind of stress did he have? Nothing happened to him anymore, and it was just like it used to be; life was monotonous and boring, going through the motions. He hadn't written a blog entry in months, as he no longer had any inspiration. _"I'd be lost without my blogger"_ he had said. What a load of bullshit. Guess Sherlock hadn't considered how lost John was without him.

_Might as well finish the drink,_ John thought somberly. One last slug and the alcohol buzzed on his lips, the glass clinking as it hit the side table. John sat there for a while, his former flat mate spinning through his mind. This would be his first Christmas without Sherlock in the world, running, talking, and breathing. His image danced in the sad Brit's mind as the alcohol brought him a very lonely doze.

* * *

When John opened his eyes again, he was standing, empty glass of scotch in his hand. The clock read two in the morning. Had he woken earlier and not been aware, then stood to get a new glass? It didn't matter. He shuffled to the kitchen for a second glass, and while he poured it into the glass, a shrill yet incredibly flat note of a violin resonated throughout the flat.

"Damn this thing," a low voice grumbled, along with the sound of tightening strings, "cold must've gotten to it…" The sound continued, growing higher in pitch. "Might need some new strings."

It was nonchalant and easy how the blonde turned; because he was positive his flat mate's voice was just in his imagination. But when he turned, there he stood, as clear as day; Sherlock Holmes with his violin resting against his abdomen, facing the window. "Sherlock," John said, and the name felt as if it were his first word, fresh and new, as if it was the first time the name escaped his lips.

His name was returned smoothly, like running water. "John," he responded, low and even.

He swallowed, and there was a lump in his throat, though not from tears or sadness. John stood in the middle of the room, but he was not the center of it. His tremor was mysteriously missing, though it had remained present in his hands for months before. "You're here," and in that moment, it seemed as if everything else on the globe was absent.

"Yes," Sherlock answered softly, moving to the next string. Conversation was apparently going to be minimal, and though John felt as if he had everything to say in the world, nothing escaped his mouth. He held the gaze of the slim reflection in the window. That obnoxiously out of tune instrument in his slim hands held more interest than John did at the moment, even though the violin hadn't been mourning his death for several months. He looked around, then back at the man.

"Where have you been?"

"Underground. I'm dead," he responded coolly as he finished tuning. It found its way back onto the floor, obscured by the curtain. Sherlock stuffed his hands into his black pockets and turned his full attention now on his flat mate. His dark curls cascaded over his pale skin, with the corner of his mouth twitching, and then returning to normal. "It's only been eleven months. Surely you haven't forgotten."

"Of course not," John retorted quickly, glancing at his glass of scotch. He repeated himself, yet quieter, a hint of loneliness trapped in his voice, "of course not."

They locked eyes, and John was sure he felt his breath catch in his throat. His heart sped up in his chest, and Sherlock took a step closer and _oh God his breath is so warm and quiet._ Their eyes searched each other and it was just them with no one else, with only the near silent sound of their breathing. John blinked, and the moment was gone, having dissolved into the air. Almost reluctantly, Sherlock moved away, moving past him to go to their kitchen table.

"Have you cleaned at _all_ since I was gone?" He shuffled through the papers, looking at some of them and replacing them to where they were. "Ah, some cards here, taxes, bills; have you been able to pay the rent sufficiently?"

John interrupted, his eyebrows furrowed. "Sherlock." He turned. "I'm going to wake up and then you'll be gone, right?"

He set down the envelopes and filled his pockets with his hands again. Sherlock's ocean eyes remained on the table instead of returning to the other Brit in the room. "I'm sorry, John."

There wasn't much else to say at that moment other than various three word combinations that had packed John's head for months; I miss you, I need you, come back home. Instead, the words escaped his lips that were not on that list. "Please don't go."

"I have to leave soon," came the reply, as if John hadn't even been heard. "I've much to do, many things to work on." He turned his slim body to the mantelpiece, inspecting the Christmas cards that embellished it. "Interesting to know you're still in my brother's thoughts."

"Is that it, then?" The smaller man set down the untouched second glass of scotch and walked up to him, almost confronting him. "You're just going to – to go? Without a second thought or backwards glance?"

"I'm always looking back, John. You usually aren't paying close enough attention." Sherlock turned back around, seeming to have finished. He nodded and gave their flat one last awkward look. "Well, I'll be off, then. It was grand."

"You were only here for seven bloody minutes—"

"_Everything_ has been grand. Not just the evening, but everything." He moved close, closer again and they stood still in time. The blonde stood still while the eyes of a million seas inspected him and dared him, challenged him to move and soil the moment. But they stood, and finally Sherlock breathed out, "Merry Christmas, John." And that, it seemed, was that.

* * *

It had been a beautiful, wonderful, absolutely glorious dream, but now that it was over, the gloom settled back into the pit of John's stomach. He felt that he was a rotten, spoiled child on Christmas morning, having just opened all of their presents to find that the one item on their list is not present. When young children don't get what they want, they whine, and incessantly. John was close to doing just that.

His bed was warm and it cradled him and soothed the loneliness out of him. Had he fallen asleep in his bed? He didn't remember crawling under the blankets and curling up, but there he was, head supported by a pillow. His shift at the hospital began in several hours, and even though he was usually grilled for being late, since it was a holiday, he would probably be let off the hook. But why risk it?

John groaned and rolled over, wishing that he could be a child again, just for Christmas day. He'd run downstairs and look under the tree and rip open just one gift that he was given this year. Sure, he had received presents from Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Lestrade even, but he knew he couldn't get the one thing he really, truly wanted. With that set in mind, he sat up begrudgingly to make himself some morning tea.

The flat looked the same as it did at eleven last night. The Christmas lights were still bordering the window, the small tree he owned sat proudly by itself with only the several gifts underneath and the table was still cluttered with bills and old letters he hadn't bothered to open. John shuffled into the kitchen slowly, as if moving his feet one after the other was a burden of its own.

Looking over the table after the tea was made and in his quaking hand, he exhaled in a soft sigh. Each white envelope was still, everything exactly in the place it had been the day before. Nothing, it appeared, had budged an inch. How…plain. John sipped his tea and made his way back to his chair. It was nice and warm there, he decided as he sat and enjoyed the quiet morning. Muted laughter and excitement came from outside as the snowflakes spiraled down through the sky and planted themselves on his window.

Pausing, he slowly set his tea cup down in its saucer and placed it on the table beside him. Sherlock's violin sat on the floor, covered by the edge of the light sienna curtain, collecting dust. As he stood to go forward and inspect it, he pondered that he might as well enjoy what little time he had with the tall Brit in his dreams. It was nice, and although it was short lived, seeing his flat mate alive and well and on his feet made his heart palpitate. He hadn't ever dreamed of him; there had definitely been nightmares during the first month, but never such a magnificent and almost lifelike reverie. _"Merry Christmas, John,"_ he had Christmas, indeed.

John gently reached down and grabbed the small instrument by its neck. His hands were shaking again, and violently, but it was a different kind of shake. It wasn't just his hands, to be precise, it was his entire body. His knees quivered just slightly, and he pressed the base of the violin to his stomach, his other hand wrapped around the neck. Gently, he plucked the string farthest to the left, the high E string. The sound reverberated throughout the room, perfectly in tune.


End file.
